


A explanation for Sherlock being Sherlock

by Lurker2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Angels, Alien Biology, Alien Character(s), Alien Culture, Alien Technology, Aliens are confused for angels, Aliens are future humans, Alternate Universe - Angels, Future!Aliens, Gen, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, Our Angels Are Different, POV Sherlock Holmes, Telepathy, blue and orange morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:07:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurker2/pseuds/Lurker2
Summary: Disclaimer for the whole fic: I do not own Sherlock, nor its inspiration. Also, in the beginning it'll heavily feature Alternate Universe stuff, but as soon as he meets John on his and Mary's date it'll reach canon again - at least more then now.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer for the whole fic: I do not own Sherlock, nor its inspiration. Also, in the beginning it'll heavily feature Alternate Universe stuff, but as soon as he meets John on his and Mary's date it'll reach canon again - at least more then now.

Sherlock was rude, blunt and a possible high-functioning sociopath who could solve mysteries that stumped everyone else in ~2 seconds. Angels are expected to be of god, do his will, and be kind and fluffy, incapable of evil. Everyone who knew something about Sherlock and angels knew that. People just tend to forget that the old god was seen as a total and utter dick, not a semi-hippyish grandfather. More like the grandfather that everyone _knew_ abused your mom and held vaguely racist beliefs. 

Sherlock was not 'of god'. He was firmly a atheist, and proud of it. He also lacked wings (thought he was not fallen), and he certainly was as capable of evil as any human, and then some. But he was a angel alright, as was Mycroft, thought you wouldn't say it if you saw them. 

When he had come to earth, about three deccenia ago, it was on a scoutingmission, and also a Search & Protect one. Find a older veteran who will be at the point of taking his life and help him. His name would be John Watson and he could only be met and invited at a specific point in time. 

In the meantime, he'd try to figure out humanity, His form was automatically seen as a tall, pale, human with little distinguishing features in most lights. (Except for prophets and other sharp-eyed people) 

Not, as was the custom, by trying to find love, but by living a normal single human life. He did not go into science or medicine, thought he could have advanced both tremendously - Mycroft would've killed him if he had done that. Instead, he decided to start solving crimes for free, so he wouldn't go insane from lack of mental stimulation. He quickly discovered he saw far more details then humans, and could zoom in on certain things, if he wanted to.

The one remnant of his being a angel: spreading goodness at no reward to himself or John. Used to drive John crazy, it did. He very nearly smiled to himself at the memories. John was good, and kind, but he knew that to help others you had to accept money. Sherlock always had plenty - he could _afford_ to not care. Mrs Hudson might even have accepted them living for free, but John was scrupulous and would've refused. And quite right too, of course. 

As he sat on a roof, invisible, he mourned the almost-human life he had had. 

It wasn't surviving that was hard. Crude technology like the pistol couldn't kill him, anymore then the fall had. Cloning a body (with Molly's invaluable help) was easy as pie, even with earthtechnology. Cobbling together a invisibilitything (in his case a ring) was a little harder but still possible (he had considered a rocketpack but decided it'd be too conspicious). Of course he'd survived the fall - it was only, what, ten floors down? 

No, the hard part was John. John sobbing and screaming. John begging for a miracle. John very nearly taking his own life.

_John._

Well, he had Molly, hadn't he? And Mrs Hudson, and Greg. He'd be fine, they'd make sure of that. Surely humans must be used to people dying by now, it happens so frequently...

Soon, he'd forget Sherlock, and Sherlock would do as he must, and destroy Moriarty once and for all, and then get home again. 

_He **wouldn't** die._


	2. Chapter 2

_'You should not be so quick to give people your Name,' Sherlock had told John once._

_John looked more than a little bewildered._

_'Why not?' he asked. 'A name is not a secret, its a fairly normal introduction.'_

_'Names have power. Give people your True Name and they have the formula to your personality, your entire being. A name is a set of numbers combined in a certain way. Its basic numerology, John!'_

_At his uncomprehending gaze Sherlock had given up. A explanation would be too complex and it wasn't important enough. Not to mention there was so much that humans shouldn't know - yet-, involved with it._

_It was true, thought._

_There were multiple levels of names. You had the public name, which was only used as a identifier, and in the olden days was often chosen later in life. Then there was the other sort of name, the one capitalized. Names like 'The Gunslinger' or 'The Detective' or things like that, denoting a role in life, a archetype influencing your personality and fate. They were called Archetypes, thought that was not entirely accurate. Not everyone could be a Archetype - it took a solidified believe in a certain kind of person. Like a idea that *this* is what evil looks like, and *that* is the life of a lost prince, and even 'this is the place where there will always be a good detective and his archenemy', which was, every-time, Great-Britain. And then you had True Names, which were used to do magic on one person, and one person only. It was a bit like a tag added to a username, so you could have two users with the same username not being confused by the system. In many ways that was how magic worked; you had the basic system of the universe just doing its thing, and magic gave you a commandline to use in the terminal of the universe. It didn't always go right, or work the way you want it to, but that's programming for you. So giving someone a True Name was about equal to giving your root-password - things could seriously go south with it, and the only thing were the metaphor will have to derail is the point were it hits only one user instead of the whole computer. Also, the fact you can change your root-password and you can't change your True Name really - it forges you as you forge it._

_'Sherlock Holmes' was not his real name, it was a mere Archetype, a vessel if you will, invoking images of a victorian gentleman detective helping the weak and helpless. Or something. He wasn't sure, he had never bothered with the books. The point was that it was a cypher, and it helped to get people to trust him, tell him things._

_John Watson's number was a 8, symbolizing a new beginning and resurrection. Fitting for a army doctor who frequently brought patients back from the brink of dead and had started a new beginning with Sherlock. It wasn't a bad number. Anyone who tried to use his name would merely be warned he'd get up again. Sherlock relaxed somewhat._

A couple of days later John had asked him why he believed in Numerology. Sherlock hadn't deigned to answer, because you couldn't go around telling mortals that it was a tiny part of a mathematical algorithm to the universe, shaping destiny in the tiniest of ways, that he'd been there when it was custom to have two names, one true and hidden and one a mere identifier. 

He'd been itching to tell John there was no heaven and no hell when they had talked about it sometimes, there was nothing but you wouldn't be aware of the nothingness because that's part of being dead (at his funeral it was the hardest to resist). 

He didn't mention much tech for fear of talking about stuff that didn't exist yet, like laser spanners and so on. They were just at the first ever sonic screwdriver, now just a toy for geeks to turn a puck around. He was watching history in the making and he loved it. 

He played around with programs in his spare time, finding ways to crack patterns, codes, making his laptop fast, fast as he could. Technology strained, got stretched to its limits, snapped. The laptop (Johns, he'd hoped to surprise him with a Überfast computer) overheated and crashed with a bit of black smoke and a groan.

_Damn._

In a attempt to get information to get it working again he suddenly got the idea to make at least their phones better by always having range wherever or whenever they were.

John had been furious when he got home more then three hours later, finding him tinkering with both phones and the laptop a smelly mess. They hadn't talked for more then a week, which wasn't _that_ unusual (Sherlock regularly went longer without talking, sometimes forgetting humans weren't telepathic so thinking things at John was no use), but this was a nasty kind of silence, the kind that made Mrs. Hudson tut and made him wish he could shout at her to SHUT UP, even thought it wasn't her fault at all. 

He was crying. Why was he crying?

He could sense the pain of a old lady at the bus who had just buried her child -soldier like John-, but that wasn't it. He missed his home - and suddenly he realized his home wasn't linked with his home _world_ anymore in his mindpalace. It was 221 B Bakerstreet, and tea and jumpers and even a sulking John in the corner and having to pay for a ruined laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I don't believe in Numerology. I did dig into it to get Johns number and find out how I could make it fit. Also this is switching between Sherlock's 'death' and the past as he mourns his life with John.
> 
> The root-password enables you to do stuff a regular user can't - like deleting files permanently, to name something that can really go wrong. If the universe sounds suspiciously like a linuxcomputer, that's because its the main inspiration - its hardly as user-friendly as Windows is supposed to be ;)
> 
> I do not believe in magic either.


	3. Chapter 3

The bus stopped at a sleazy town. It smelled of raw fish and salt and Ancience. Sometimes it was there. Mycroft knew when. Sometimes it was somewhere else, between cliffs and the ruins of a castle or where-ever else it felt like being. Sometimes it inhabited other towns, laying just under the surface. There would be no hotel here. Maybe a dodgy pub. Dodgy because it disappeared every five days except when it decided to spice things up a bit. Its people kept themselves to themselves, contending themselves with glaring at tourists, with the exception of old guys begging a drink or (if they paid for their own and others') some company. They had many names; frogpeople, fishbreath, fish-for-brains, and most importantly Nephilims People, a name whispered in darkness and fear even when nobody knew who Nephilim was. It was just one of those Names to Run Away From Really Fast, like Lucifer and Moriarty. The pub was there. Inside Sherlock saw several Archetypes; a Mysterious Guy in the darkest corner, a Barkeep wiping filthy glass with a filthier rag, a Werewolf and a Hapless Tourist. Apart from that there was a drunk guy rambling about communism. 

'Hello,' he said to the Barkeep. 'Is there a room free?'

'$30 and you'll pay up front,' the Barkeep growled.

Sherlock considered him.

'5.'

'A night you mean? How long you staying?'

 _Several weeks at least._ He added his True Form to the thought.

It was sufficient.

'Cheap,' the Barkeep grumbled but he accepted the deal. Sherlock was reminded of another dark cafe from John's Stag Night, a night which, if he recalled correctly, he hadn't quite lived yet. Then he was back here with a glass of Old Peculiar, walking up to the Tourist who looked already quite drunk. Probably he'd already been told stories, Sherlock thought, knowing the way of such towns. You needed a drink after hearing about The End of The World, and their Eldritch God, generally speaking. Sherlock drank and then he, the two old guys and the werewolf played a game involving tarot, singing and drinks. The last thing he remembered was the redheaded Tourist on the beach laying between two rocks ( _just sleeping)_ and singing a silly song.

' _The sun was setting on a orange sky...'_ before puking and going back. When he woke up, he was in the pub, in bed, alone. That was good, Sherlock thought. It didn't _guarantee_ he hadn't done anything too stupid, but it was a good start. He went downstairs, paid for his room and his drinks, ate some... stuff he really didn't want to examine too closely and went outside, trying to trace his steps from last night. A indentation in the sand between the rocks where the Tourist had slept and some dried up puke on the pier was all that was left from last night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The North Wind comes from Chocolat. Mysterious Stranger is heavily inspired by Aragorn. The idea of Names...possibly comes from 'A practical guide to villainy'

When he got back the Mysterious Stranger was in the corner, watching Sherlock carefully before returning to his paper. 

'He's always like this,' muttered one of the locals. 'Creeps me out.' 

Sherlock paused and looked hard at the Stranger. Under a longcoat, a hint of a scabbard could be seen. _Family relic?_

Under his hood not much of his face was visible, except for shoulder-long hair and a sharp chin. The rest was partially hidden by the paper in front of him. But he remembered the parts he had seen just now, the kind eyes and the mouth almost in a kind smile, and realized with a sight it was one of Those.

Those were Kings' sons, protectors of a realm, almost invariably one of those justice types. No doubt on a mission of sorts. 

Doomed to wander until they found a throne to occupy, they were not exactly well-liked among most. 

The kind that might even dare to _pity_ him.

Sherlock turned sharply, ordered a coffee and asked the middle-aged local what he knew about him. The local had the sort of wrinkly bitterness around him that indicated a gossiper, and Sherlock was proven right when the man took him to a faraway corner and began his tale (with probably not much more truth to it then most of their other tales). Apparently one night he had strided in, ordered a coke ("Coke! I ask you!"), paid for a room and never left ("To be fair, that was three days ago. I think he's getting restless."). Nobody knew what brought him here, and what few he was willing to say was rather cryptic. Here the man stopped.

'Go on,' requested Sherlock.

'The _only_ thing he was willing to say was that a North wind was coming.'

Sherlock froze.

The East Wind, as his brother was all too willing to tell him, took away the dead wood, the layabouts and tyrants and bad people. 

The North Wind brought... _change_. But narratively speaking, it did more and was more specific. And narrative, and belief, is very important.   
The North Wind was responsible for bringing the right people to the right places. The bane of Wanderers everywhere, it forced them to pack up and go where-ever it blew. It brought Heroes to towns, or to Protectors, or Mentors, and each was almost forced to fulfill that role he was most suited to. Wanderers could be any sort. The King's son, or the Good Witch, or the High-Priest, or the Gunslinger were all particularly susceptible to its influences, but it also enjoyed bringing poor hapless souls into adventures, reverberating across generations. If the North Wind really _was_ coming that might mean...

'-what do you make of that,eh?' 

Sharp eyes suddenly looked at him and he was uncomfortably reminded that gossipers tended to have sharp eyes for people.   
  
'Nothing,' he said after a time. ' I mean, North Wind? Whats that supposed to mean, right?'

'...yeah,' the man said, having that look over him that said 'you haven't been listening, have you?'  
  
'Sorry,' Sherlock said hastily. 'I've just been puzzling so hard over that. Did you say anything else?'  
  
'I said he's been looking at you for a couple of minutes and he's now coming toward you,' the local said nervously. 


	5. Chapter 5

'Hello,' a warm voice said behind him, as the gossiper scuttled away. 

Sherlock turned around and almost groaned. Definitely one of those heroic justice types that never failed to annoy the crap out of him. 

The Stranger had sharp features and a weathered face, messy blond hair and brown eyes with a sharp gaze, the full force now aimed at Sherlock. He had obviously traveled a lot - Sherlock could discern at least six different types of soil on his boots and he was sure he would find more with a microscope-, and he was definitely older than he looked, possibly going as far back as WWII, judging by his clothes and what he knew of this archetype.

‘I see the locals have already warned you against me,’ he said mildly.

‘They told me about you, yeah,’ Sherlock said stiffly. 

'I saw what you did last night,' The Stranger said. 'Protecting the tourist.'

So that's what’s gotten his attention.  _ He must be lonely and looking for people to trust, _ Molly seemed to say in his head. Molly with the bleeding heart. Would she really have said that?

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. 

‘Am I waiting for you?’

Sherlock blinked. 

‘nononononono,’ he said hastily. ‘No, I’m just laying low for some weeks. I’ve my own stuff after that. They do  _ not _ include thrones, or kings, or kings sons, or mentoring of any kind.’ 

The Strangers mouth with too-white teeth fell open, and he had a look that spelled out ‘how did you do that/are you insane?’   
Sherlock nearly facepalmed. He’d done it again. Reacting to something that wasn’t said yet, but might have would be in a probable future. Being distracted could do that to you, make you open for possibilities like that. The two universes parallel would overlap for a couple of seconds, and if it was a slightly faster going one, people susceptible to that would see things that, in all probability,  _ could _ happen in their universe’s future. Timezones. 

‘Right, well,’ The Stranger paused awkwardly as Sherlock focused back on him and his immediate environment. ‘The North Wind is coming. You know what that means, don’t you?’ 

Sherlock grimaced. ‘You’re looking for heroes to help win a throne, aren’t you?’

‘I have no  _ choice _ ,’ The Stranger hissed. ‘You  _ know  _ that! I have to find a throne and be a good and just king or…’

Or the narrative would force him. Where-ever he’d go, there’d  _ always  _ be a throne to win, justice to serve, heroes to recruit etc.

Even here.

Even this, the feeling of having no choice, was part of the Role. A Good King didn’t  _ want _ the throne, he  _ had  _ to. 

‘Plus,’ The Stranger added. ‘They’re having sacrifices when the Wind comes. I can’t sit back and watch.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sherlock said airily. ‘I heard the werewolf is up. Should be fun, especially with some popcorn.’ 

He didn’t mean it, of course, but those types… they couldn’t help it, but they always made him want to say things like that. 

‘There is a werewolf here?’ he whispered almost eagerly. 

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘It’s okay, the sacrificers think he is a innocent. They won’t know what hits them.’ 

The Stranger’s hand went to his sword. 

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock warned him. ‘He’s a decent guy, didn’t kill anyone. Yet.’ 

Some cats had gone missing, but that was all. The sacrifice  _ would _ probably end with a few deaths, but Sherlock couldn’t be too bothered about that, considering the sacrifice wasn’t exactly voluntary. 

‘Might even be a useful ally for your throne,’ he added, grinning. 

It all really depended on the sort of werewolf he was. The man did not, curiously enough, seem repulsed at the idea. In fact, he had shown none of the signs of being a heroic justicey type, apart from going for his sword when he heard there was a werewolf. Which wasn’t all that surprising. 

Maybe he wasn’t  _ quite _ one of those heroic types after all.


End file.
